Your Art Matters
by Leijona
Summary: Entry for the promt Lexi-Rae sent me on Tumblr - celebrity/fan AU. Nathan/Peyton AU. Very short. One shot.


#33 Celebrity/fan AU - One shot.

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He stares at the painting in front of him and tilts his head slightly to right, taking it all in. The canvas he's looking at is covered in black paint and titled "Love" and somehow he _gets_ it.

Because even though there is nothing but black staring back at him, if he looks closely he can see each individual brush stroke; a crisscross pattern of bold, wide strokes running from top to bottom, covered in small but equally unruly strokes that run left to right. At some points the brush strokes melt into one another, while at other points they are separated and show the distinct layers between them.

It reminds him of young love. Where one day you confess your eternal love to one another and the next you are fighting over something trivial like not holding her hand when walking her to class. Where you experience the highest of highs and the lowest of lows together. He knows that this is one of her earlier paintings, which she made when she was still in high school.

Behind him he can hear a couple argue over the piece, saying that it is ridiculous that she became so famous with works like this and how their 3-year old could have done a better job at it. It takes everything he has not to turn around and tell them to leave.

Instead, he sits down on one of the chairs that are scattered across the gallery and lets his eyes wander over the various paintings and drawings on the walls. There isn't a specific theme to them, they are simply the collection of her work over the years, but somehow they fit together perfectly.

There are no new works, there's nothing here that he hasn't seen before, but he is still captivated by her work as though he is looking at it for the first time.

He remembers exactly when he discovered her; it was when he saw "People Always Leave", one of her earlier drawings, in an old copy of Thud magazine. It took a hold of his heart and he has been a fan of her work ever since. He tried to find as much information about her and her other works as he could, but other than her online catalogue she's untraceable.

At first it frustrated him not knowing who she was. The only glimpse he got of her was what he assumed was a self-portrait titled "Angel of Death", where she painted a young punk girl with black angel wings. But now that he has been following her work for a couple of years he understands that she must be a very private person and doesn't mind that he knows almost nothing about her except that she signs her work as "Sawyer". Her art work tells him everything he needs to know.

A lot of his friends, most of which are his Bobcats teammates; tough athletes who care more about which club to go to next than visiting an art gallery, don't understand his obsession with her. That's what they call it, anyway. Maybe they're right. Maybe having most of her prints displayed in his home and visiting every single one of her exhibitions is obsessive.

He has tried to explain them that her art matters and that what she draws means something to him, but they just shake their heads and tell him to "get over it". So he's stopped telling them about her art and instead keeps her to himself.

A woman sits down on a chair next to him, interrupting his thoughts, and he can't help but look at her. Her eyes are watery and red rimmed, her dark brown hair is in a messy bun and she looks like she is about to break into a million tiny little pieces. She gives him a small smile and settles her eyes on the black canvas in front of her.

He joins her gaze and gets lost in the painting again for what feels like hours.

"I always loved that one," the woman says quietly to no one in particular.

"Me too," he agrees.

The woman looks at him again and he sees the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Are you ok?" he asks, hesitantly, not sure if she wants to talk to him.

"Yeah," the woman sniffs, drying her eyes with her sleeve. "It's her birthday today," she says, and nods towards the painting.

"Sawyer's?" he asks.

She nods, "She would have been 31 by now."

"What do you mean, 'would have been'?" he asks, but he isn't sure he wants to know the answer.

"She died two months ago," the woman closes her eyes for a second and takes a deep breath, "This is the last time her art will be on public display, as a sort of last goodbye."

"Oh," His chest tightens and suddenly he's overcome with an immense sense of loss. Even though he has never known her personally he already misses her. He turns towards the woman, because he somehow knows that she must have known Sawyer personally, "I'm really sorry for your loss."

He can feel the tears well up in his eyes and knows he needs to get outside, get some fresh air and somehow deal with all of this. On his own. He gets up and quickly places his hand on the woman shoulder and gives it a squeeze, "I really love her work."

The woman gives him a small smile and nods, "Thank you."

He lets go of her and heads towards the door.

"Hey," the woman calls after him. He turns around. "Her name was Peyton by the way. Peyton Sawyer."


End file.
